


A King With No Crown

by ManaPotion



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Gen, Huxgazing, M/M, Other, Pining, Stargazing, secretly in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6387400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManaPotion/pseuds/ManaPotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ren quite literally sees stars between the general's thighs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A King With No Crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [curiumKingyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiumKingyo/gifts), [ciphir](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ciphir).



> I was listening to [this song](https://youtu.be/1mkUp1V3ys0) a lot while writing this.
> 
> Inspired by [this lovely artwork](http://ciphir.tumblr.com/post/140943344893), [The Emperor's Stars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6209857), Gleeson's perfect face, and because I decided there was nowhere near enough stargazing + Huxgazing yet.  
>   
> 

 

General Hux is on the bridge of the Finalizer. Graveyard shift, not that you could tell from out the viewport, stationed as they are in deep space, in unexplored regions past Rakata Prime.

A few bleary-eyed officers accompany the general, clacking away at the matte gun-steel control panels of the CIC. One stifles a yawn with the back of a gloved hand. All dressed alike, stamped with identical grooming standards, uniforms starched to perfection.

And yet. Hux stands apart.  The rarest of hues marks him, parts him like an Arkanian red diamond from the chaff. Long, slender legs stalk from workstation to console, the crisp, blue-black puff of his jodhpurs parting in his sharp, unhurried stride, until Ren quite literally sees stars between the general's thighs.

Stars. The dark heart of a nebula. The relativistic plasma streak of a supernova as it hurtles through the void, twenty thousand miles a second, shredding every atom in its path. The catastrophic glow of matter at the event horizon of a black hole. The blue nucleus of a pulsar, and the mirrored shock fronts as it shears screaming through a cloud of millions of tonnes of intergalactic hydrogen gas. The silent, crystallized cores of stars long since burned out. Dark matter haloes at the edges of distant galaxies. The cataclysmic flash of a gamma ray burster. Barred spiral arms studded with the glittering jewels of a hundred thousand nuclear cores.

Ren knows they're there, he can see the light of them, the dark of them, the brilliant white, the ultraviolet, the ill red, the shrouded black of gravity wells – all of it, that ineffable moebius strip of time and space, stretching outwards past the viewport behind the general as he works.

It's bad enough in profile. Shadows fall from cheekbones so sharp Ren is certain they would slice apart his palm should he so much as deign to touch them, settling in the hollows of Hux's cheeks in the unnatural lowlight of the bridge. Hux glances down at a console, eyelashes a fan of the most delicate Krasnoyarsk red gold against that pale skin, dusted with its lattice of freckles.

The soft bow of his muted pink lips lifts almost imperceptibly at the corner – the general must have seen something he'd disliked on that monitor. He stalks off, calm, imperious, one black-gloved hand clasped behind his back at perfect parade rest. Begins addressing an officer, no doubt to emend whatever issue had displeased him.

His body's a whip, and Ren _wants_ , suddenly, furiously, unreasonably, to see it lash a thousand systems into submission.

And then Hux turns in his work. And now he's facing Ren. And all of his freckles set off like the millions of stars behind him.

Ren's breath stutters.

It's enough to draw the general's attention. Grey-green Arkanis eyes turn up, expression mildly irate, face the very study of aristocratic symmetry, fire of his hair barely contained in its gel-slicked coiffure.

"Yes, Ren?" Hux sighs, irritable, long, black-gloved fingers darting elegantly across a touchscreen, moving hundreds of thousands of pounds of steel, of war machines, of ammunition and warm bodies with a few light gestures.

He's arresting, disarming. Viperous. Brutal.

Beautiful.

And still expecting a reply, one red-gold eyebrow arching in exasperated askance, regarding the struck-mute Ren like he's the biggest idiot on board.

"..Nothing."

 


End file.
